“Not at all,” said Mary. “Everything shall be as it was. I am sure that Mr. Bardy will approve. Besides, Mr. Jeekes, I want your assistance in something else....”
“Anything in my power....” began Jeekes.
“Listen,” said Mary.
She was all her old self-composed self now, a charming figure in her plain blue serge suit with a white silken shirt and black tie—the best approach to mourning her wardrobe could afford. Already the short winter afternoon was drawing in. Mysterious shadows lurked in the corners of the long and narrow room.
“Listen,” said Mary, leaning forward. “I want to know why Mr. Parrish killed himself. I mean to know. And I want you, Mr. Jeekes, to help me to find out.”
Something stirred ever so faintly in the remote recesses of the billiard-room. A loose board or something creaked softly and was silent.
“What was that?” the girl called out sharply. “Who’s there?”
Mr. Jeekes got up and walked over to the door. It was ajar. He closed it.
“Just a board creaking,” he said as he resumed his seat.
“I want your aid in finding out the motive for this terrible deed,”—Mary Trevert was speaking again,—“I can’t understand.... I don’t see clear....”